


Hotch Ran

by Mrs_SimonTam_PHD



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Accused of crimes he didn't commit, Arrested!, Fugitive!Hotch, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, On the Run, Prostitute!Hotch, long distance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD/pseuds/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD
Summary: Hotch ran. He had to.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595023
Comments: 10
Kudos: 71





	Hotch Ran

**Author's Note:**

> Have another Bad Things Happen Bingo Fill!!
> 
> Square: On the Run

Hotch ran. 

He’s not too sure  _ who  _ he’s running from, but he’s running. He has to. 

Hotch ran. 

He never ran from his problems, always facing them headon, but this was a problem that he had to physically run from. 

Hotch ran. 

He had to leave everything he held dear to him behind- including his son. One day, Jack will understand (he hoped), but his heart ached for his son, his last connection to Hayley and normalcy. 

Hotch ran. 

Gone was Aaron Hotchner, Supervisory Special Agent and Unit Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Gone was Aaron Hotchner, American Bar Association certified lawyer. Gone was Aaron Hotchner: brother, son, father, ex-husband/widower, lover. 

He had a new name now, a new face. He wore exclusively jeans and graphic tees for bands long gone and hoodies, he grew out his facial hair. He regained the southern accent he worked so hard to lose and he traveled light. His FBI badge, cell phones, and driver’s license were dispensed in a trashcan somewhere in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He broke his bank card so that way he wouldn’t be tempted to leave a paper trail. He did this after his last ATM transaction in Atlanta. He withdrew all but two hundred dollars- a large sum of money. He doesn’t remember how much. He sends some money every two weeks to Jessica by way of Western Union so he could help with Jack. 

Hotch ran. 

By God, he  _ had  _ to run. 

Hotch ran. 

The only people who could probably find him now were the BAU and he didn’t  _ want  _ to be found. Not yet. Not until the  _ real  _ unsub behind the destruction of his entire life was found, caught, and had enough evidence to exonerate him. 

To get cash, so he wasn’t living entirely on the streets and to keep up his income to Jack, Hotch turned to prostitution. He never had to worry about getting clients, no matter where he was. People would be surprised by how much someone would pay to have a man like Hotch fuck them (or be fucked by them) in a seedy motel downtown. They would also be surprised that gender didn’t matter. 

And there were no feelings. No strings attached; it was a business transaction. Hotch longed for when sex would no longer be a way for him to survive, but for it to return to him being the gentle and attentive lover he was, wanted to be again, with the only person that it’s ever mattered to besides Hayley. 

Hotch ran. 

He ate like he was homeless, which made sense because he was. He ate whatever he could find, whatever he could afford, and he was grateful for every morsel that graced his lips. He slept wherever he could and dealt with the consequences that his body gave him with some ibuprofen and the sheer desire to not be caught. Not just yet. He had to keep moving. 

He had to run. 

Hotch ran. 

The only thing that Hotch kept from his former life were his guns. He still carried both of them and only had to draw them twice in the now seven months he was on the run. 

Hotch ran. 

He kept a couple of photos, too, kept them in a plain, nondescript, brown wallet. Pictures of him with Hayley, pictures of Jack, pictures of him and his team, pictures of him with Reid. He looked at them every night before he went to sleep, reminding himself as to  _ why  _ he was doing this. 

Hotch ran. 

He called two people once a week from a payphone- never the same payphone twice, and never did the calls in a row. They were always staggered. 

He called Jessica to talk to Jack, to check in on her, to reassure her that he wasn’t what the media was portraying him as, and that yes, he’ll be home when he can come home. He needed to feel connected to his family in some way. It helped with his sanity. 

He called Reid to check in on the young genius, see where the case was going, help find the unsub in whatever way he could. That he was okay, and that he’d be coming home once his name was completely cleared. 

He also sent them postcards with no return label, and he would always send them a city or town away. He had to. He couldn’t be caught. Not yet. 

Hotch ran. 

Truth be told, he was  _ tired  _ of running, but he couldn’t stop, not yet. Not with the charges hanging over his head like a bad omen; not with this unsub on the loose. He had to run until he was either captured, or the unsub was. 

Hotch ran. 

So it was a weird mix of dread and relief when he got to his motel for the night in the middle of downtown Omaha, Nebraska, to see Dr. Spencer Reid standing in the low light of the room, a pair of handcuffs in his right hand. 

Hotch looked at Reid. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“I know,” Reid replied. The young genius looked  _ tired  _ and  _ worn out,  _ but also relieved. “Please, set your guns on the nightstand.” 

It was cruel that they sent Reid to do this, but Hotch understood as he relinquished his gun he kept in his hoodie pocket. He was least likely to react in a hostile, combative, or defensive manner to Reid than any other member of the team. Hotch pulled his gun out of his ankle holster and set it aside. Reid watched with a sadness in his eyes as Hotch turned around and placed his hands behind his head. 

He could hear the cuffs cycle through as Reid moved forward. “Aaron Hotchner, you’re under arrest on suspicion of eight counts of murder and flight to avoid apprehension and/or prosecution. You have the right to remain silent…” 

Hotch had ran, and now he was caught. His entire body sagged and he gave a mute nod when Reid asked him if he understood his rights. He sagged in relief and, in a sense of the word, submission. 

“The next time you’re on the run,” Reid murmured in Hotch’s ear as they left the motel room, Reid’s hand firmly on the chain connecting the cuffs, “make yourself easier to find. Or maybe not run. We would’ve figured it out.” 

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” Hotch said softly, his southern accent saying his name like  _ Spensah.  _

He could tell that Reid had smiled. Before they went into the lobby and outside, Reid pulled Hotch off to a hidey-hole area. Turning Hotch around, he kissed him quickly. “Never go on the run again,” he admonished. “I don’t  _ ever  _ want to arrest you again, at least not in a legal manner and that doesn’t end in coital delight.” 

Hotch gave a tired smile. “Yes, love,” he said. 

Hotch was on the run, but maybe he shouldn’t have done so. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell
> 
> Twitter: @Alendra_Dragon
> 
> Comments and Kudos are Shiny!!


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